American Breakfast

Breakfast is neither a French word nor a French forte. Yet now that I live away from the land of croissants and espressos swallowed in haste at the counter of a neighboring café, I enjoy one weekly American breakfast, always in the company of my husband. After all, he is the one who got the idea to pack our French stuff for the American dream.

My husband was an American before he became officially one. In Paris with his bulky pager and stocky first Macintosh, his body was in Paris, his mind in California.

We haven’t started when he gets a phone call and must check this iPhone – business is business.

It’s perfect with me. See, more than window-shopping, that most French women adore, I love people-watching.

While I warm my hands around my American to-go cup, I glance around me.

Facing the window, five retired men, all wearing plaid shirts and also a mustache, share jokes around plates of scrambled eggs and toasts. They must be good friends because there aren’t any awkward pauses in their conversations.

In a quiet corner, a mother and a grandmother take bites of their muffins and sips of their lattes while watching with adoration over a newborn, asleep in his car seat.

A nurse in pink scrubs rushes in, buys a bag of twelve bagels, swipes her credit card, and dashes back to her Acura.

One table away, a man hunches above the Sport section of the local paper. Once in a while he shakes his head – disappointed that his favorite team has lost a game, I suppose.

Three middle age women in sweatpants and matching sweatshirts have ordered steamy cappuccinos and muffins. We deserve them, now that we went to the gym.

In the far back, two men hold hands and say grace, a Bible closed in the center of the small table.

Mom! The girl wears a hoodie with the logo of my son’s high school – I don’t know her. She rolls her eyes while her mother joins her in the ‘Order Here’ line.

One of the line cooks steps from the kitchen, a large soda tumbler in one hand, a cinnamon roll in the other. He steps outside, flops on a chair at the terrace, and lifts his head toward the sky.

The door opens on a lanky six feet seven young man in shapeless gray sweatpants and a pair of shower sandals. Coffee, please, now!

My husband looks up: I’ll take care of this call later on. His cup is empty and he gets a refill.

On his way back, he exchanges a few words with a man – perhaps a joke – since the man smiles.

Nothing beats an American breakfast to get the pulse of our country.


Nothing beats lunchtime, a French favorite, to scan my notes and write my Daily Post.


  1. It's all about a bit of this and that. says:

    That looks delicious! 🙂

  2. So right, nothing beats a great breakfast – this one pictured here lots delicious!

  3. MIAM !!!!

    • Oui, c’est très bon. Je garde une petite préférence pour nos petits déjeuners français mais j’aime l’ambiance des petits déjeuners américains.
      Merci pour la petite visite sur mon blog.

      • J’y vais souvent, mais je suis un peu fâchée avec mon anglais, alors je suis contente quand je comprends tout !
        Et avant je n’arrivais pas à commenter aussi, vous avez rajouté cette fonction, non ? Je la voyais sur les posts en anglais mais pas les autres, ou alors je n’ai pas bien regardé !! J’ai tendance à l’étourderie !

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